


Freddy Over Innsmouth

by bastian07



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Innsmouth (H.P. Lovecraft), Lovecraftian, Other, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:23:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastian07/pseuds/bastian07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike Schmidt gets sent to the town of Innsmouth, to manage the new restaurant just recently opened there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You couldn't help your uneasiness at the cliché circumstances. It was late at night, with thunderous applause from the heavens with rain fit for a monsoon and angrily written harassment from way-out-there cultists. You run your hands through your hair as you stare into the many legal papers on your desk. Whatever convinced the CEO of Fazbear Entertainment to open a restaurant in Innsmouth of all places must've had some strong pull, for it hadn't been anything more than a month before deeds for a new pizzeria in the dingy fisher village were signed and handed over from a previous storekeeper. Two weeks of setup was all it took before the place looked like any other Fazbear establishment. However, it was marginally smaller in size due to being smushed inbetween the closely built castes of Innsmouth. Still, it kept four animatronics, and a rare case of assembly defects not causing the Foxy model to break down.

You push your office chair away from the desk, letting it roll to face the corkboard behind you. Previously you had marked up several people who'd enter the pizzeria and order food without paying. Looking over the list, you're sort of impressed that you've got any customers at all, especially considering the locals and their hatred of all things foreign. Your letter container was stacked to the brim, though you weren't planning on opening them; they were all sent from the Order of Dagon, the local church down the block. You had previously opened five envelopes from them, and despite having high hopes, they had been nothing but harassment; threats, demands to close down the restaurant, the works. You weren't planning on budging, however. Your job hinged on this pizzeria, crazy church or not.

As you made your rounds around the establishment, you checked on all of the animatronics, the newer models you had gotten were prototypes for pseudo artifical intelligence. They had programmed personalities, traits, speech patterns and likes & dislikes. The parents and children that did come here more than once certainly enjoyed the authentic playfulness of the performers, and you certainly hadn't noticed anything off about them. Of course, that's supposedly just a legend; a bunch of malfunctioning suits murdering previous nightguards. Luckily, that had a small chance of happening once more; you had strict orders to leave the robots alone at night, as they were programmed to protect the restaurant at all costs after midnight.

As you entered the dark stage room, you looked out the windows towards the street, spotting a sizeable group of people dressed in cloaks waving their hands deliberately at the front of the food chain. Thinking quickly, you hid behind a table as you watched them continue their ritual, unaware of your presence inside the restaurants. You could barely make out what they were saying, but a few words stood out to you as they were repeated: I'a Dagon, I'a Hydra. Eventually their murmuring came to a stop, and they lowered their previously waving arms to their sides. Like a hivemind, they all spun on the spot and marched down the street, presumably to recoup at the church.

You come out of your hiding spot, wondering exactly what they were doing. Were they trying to curse you? Were they just crazy? Too many thoughts raced through your head as your heart sped up its beating. Grasping your temples, you will yourself to calm down; there's no way any of their occult practices are real. It's all make-believe and rituals, with non-tangible results. You keep telling yourself reassuring things as you walk back to your office, grabbing your coat and keys before leaving the store through the front. Upon exiting, you notice an intricate symbol carved into the wood of the front door. A ring, with letters etched into its curve, presumably a language of some sort. You look nervously around you, before locking the door and walking away. You'll have to sleep on this.

Come next day, you feel refreshed as you get up and head into your shower. Your morning routine goes on as normal; you look yourself in the mirror and smile, your shiny teeth almost reflecting in the light from the window. Finishing your ritual, you grab your coat and keys before leaving your apartment behind; you're in a surprisingly good mood, as if what happened yesterday never did. On your whistling walk to work, you're suddenly filled with a sense of dread as the village grows unnaturally quiet. Not even the trademark fisher town seagulls can be heard, even as your feet break the silence with every step.

You finally reach your destination, picking your keys out of your pocket as you let yourself in. You don't pay attention to anything as you jog lightly to the Parts & Service room, which contains the breaker for the restaurants power. Flipping the latch, you hear the comforting hum of electricity as the light comes on, the only things in the pizzeria not connected to the main grid being the freezer and the fridge, which run on their own small generators; you wouldn't want to serve spoiled pizza.

You smile to yourself as you make your way into the stage room to inspect the animatronics. You yell out their names as they call themselves in one by one, though your hair stands on end as you hear a squishy noise from the last of the robots. You walk over to Freddy, and he looks at you inquisitively. You size him up, going over his exterior with your eyes. Despite not finding anything, you ask Freddy to repeat what he said. He rumbles a "Here!", though without the fleshy sound. You apologize for the inconvenience, and Freddy just shrugs. This place is getting to you.

Another day passes as several kids come and go; all of the animatronics get to enjoy childishness as they poke fun at the parents together with their dwarfish companions. Eventually the time gets to 8 PM, and the robots sadly have to bid the kids farewell once more. Not without promises of adventure tomorrow, however; you smile to yourself as a little girl waves goodbye to Foxy, who waves his hook in response. You congratulate your 'colleagues' on their great work today, and tell them to get some well-earned rest. They all mock-yawn as you snicker at them, it's not long before all of them are posed in their usual stances, looking just like you left them yesterday.

You hop back into the office, and lean back in your chair as you drag your security cap onto your face. A little nap before work ends wouldn't hurt.

You wake with a jump as the sound of something breaking onto the floor rings throughout the restaurant. You check the clock on the wall; it's 11:33. It's almost time to go. Getting up from your chair, you grab your flashlight and walk into the hallway, the rain outside pouring something fierce. You shine your light into the kitchen, spotting a pot on the floor. You nervously look around the hallway, before slowly making your way to the kitchen. Your hand shakes from fear, the beam of light shuddering as you near the pot. Quickly scanning the room, you figure it's safe and pick up the pot. You go to hang it up, when your eyes glance over the cooking table.

You shine your flashlight over the contents of the sink, the light illuminating an overflow of green frothy muck. Your paranoia sets in for some reason, as you reach into the cupboard underneath for the plunger inside. You hold the torch between your teeth as you valiantly struggle against the thick globs of disgusting slop, your trusty plunger doing little to lower the swampy tide. Eventually you give up, deciding that this fight is one for a less exhausted you. You leave the plunger stuck in the sink, before stepping over to hang the pot anew. As soon as you're done hanging it up, you look over to the sink and shine your flaslight on it, just as the plunger descends into the bile water.

Startled, you jolt backwards, watching in terror as the sink swallows up the plunger, wooden handle and all. A sticky bubble emerges to the surface and bursts, sounding more like a well sated burp. Suitably scared, you back out of the kitchen into the hallway, pretending you didn't see what happened just now. Your breathing troubles from your fear, when you suddenly hear something crack like a knuckle inside the stage room. You freeze up, standing in place before your action-movie alter ego screams at you to man up; to which you turn around, walking to the front of the restaurant.

Rounding the corner, you get one good look at Freddy before clasping your free hand around your mouth. Freddy is standing there, twitching lightly as thick coarse tentacles rise from his eye sockets, slime starting to form a lake underneath his feet as it drips from his neck seam. You quickly take cover behind the wall to the stage room, your sanity levels dropping as you debate yourself over whether or not to chew into your fingers. You begin hyperventilating, as you rush unthinkingly into the Parts & Service room.

Once inside, you close the door and push your back against the wall, sliding down it as you whimper in terror. You punch yourself in the gut, trying to shake yourself out of it. You feel a little better as the pain brings you back a little. This must be the work of those damn cultists. As you sit there with your thoughts, you start to hear a low rumbling, which seems to come from the stage. You scan your surroundings for anything of immediate use, your eyes falling on the welder.

Your lips curve into a smile as you remember your college days; the amount of time you spent your engineering lessons breaking equipment and putting it back together might finally have a use. You get up and run over to the welder, putting it on the work table as you get a screwdriver from the tool board. Last time you disassembled a welder, you remember accidentally hitting something inside of it which caused it to spurt flame in a much larger area than normal. You poke around inside of the trigger of it, finding that on the inside, it's actually held back by a metal bar. Bruteforcing your way through your little problem, the piece of metal flies out dramatically from the trigger, landing on the floor.

You look over to the unused spare endoskeleton, putting the welder on the floor for now as you slam its body onto the table. Digging into its torso, you pull out the 120,000 amp power supply. Borrowing a few wires as well, you jerry-rig the welder to the battery. You use a zip knife to strip some insulated felt off of one of the spare suit's arms, forming a belt with the battery in the middle. You sling it over your back as you stand up, flicking off the safety on the grip. You squeeze the trigger lightly, and you almost fall on your ass as blue flame erupts and scorches the wall completely black in front of you. The word "Groovy." is all that sums up your thoughts as you smile to yourself.

Just in time too, as four glitchy moaning noises fade into earshot; you've got a sneaking suspicion of who the moans come from. You quickly grab the welders mask off the shelf, before sliding it onto your face. You exhale and inhale deeply, mentally preparing yourself for the worst. You're not gonna go silently into the night, you think to yourself as you flick the safety on, and lean up close against the door. By your estimation, the bots must be making their way off stage now, albeit slowly if the scraping noises are anything to go by.

You stand back from the door as you count to five, before kicking the door off its hinges. You're not prepared for what lies beyond the door; four giant masses of eyes and sludge are dripping and covering the previously family friendly animatronics, parts of the robots sticking out like a sore gradient against your eyes. Covered in sharptoothed jaws which open and close of their own accord, you find yourself almost too scared to make a move. Your inner voice screams in fury at you, forcing out a final battle cry before you attack the slimy monstrosities.

You flick the safety off as you smile and calmly exclaim, "Party's over." before letting the fury of the flames consume your target. Shrill shrieks nearly deafen you as you roast the eldritch horror alive, the smell of copper and burnt flesh assaulting your nostrils as you burn to a crisp the monster you assume to be Freddy. Quickly moving on, you back your way into the kitchen as you light another one of the beasts aflame. Yellow arms turn completely black as you turn the once kid appropriate robot to ashes.

Holding down the trigger, you cackle loudly as you cover the hallway in front of you in flames, a pool of disintegrated slime leaking onto the floor as the heat burns them alive. Their screaming never stops, not the bots nor the monstrous slop covering them. You laughter comes to a close as you feel the battery on your back sputter and die, completely worn out from the rigorous strain put on from the high intensity use. Looking up, you see a mass with Foxy's hook and jaw sticking out of it moving towards you. You panic; you've got to think fast.

Running over to the utility closet, you grab a bottle of cleaning alcohol and a towel, soaking it in the spirit as you conjure a make-shift molotov cocktail. The creature lets out a sound between a roar and a shriek, to which you shout "Yeah, fuck you too!" before lighting the cloth and throwing it at the horror before you. As it impacts, it lets out a long cry as it slowly burns, shrinking in mass as the flames erase the slop from its figure, leaving only Foxy's half melted faceplate.

Your heart beats as you lean yourself against the back wall, waiting to see if any more want some of this. Silence fills the battle-torn restaurant as your fear dissipates, the smell of victory closely resembling the smell of boiled blood and vomit. You step over the massive piles of goop on the floor onto the office, grabbing your coat and keys before rushing out. You cast one look back into the hallway as you grip the door handle of the exit, a lingering flame boiling some green muck. You open the door and leave, shrugging your coat onto yourself as you power walk back home.

Those sons of bitches.

They'll pay for this.


	2. Freddy Over Innsmouth 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Payback time.

You had gone home, but you surely didn't get even an hour of sleep. You spent the entire night planning the perfect counter attack; it would take some preparation though. The second the clock hit 7:30 AM, you hurried down to the local bank, making a withdrawal despite the eerie looks the locals gave you. Fuck 'em, you didn't care. You've got other things to think about than pot-bellied fishermen. Leaving the bank with your entire account balance in your wallet, you power walk to the nearest gun store in Innsmouth.

You enter the dingy shop, the walls lined with old rifles and pistols, mostly meant for hunting. The shopkeep shoots you mean glances as you inspect various weaponry, before coming upon a glass covered display housing the most beautiful weapon in the entire shop; a double-barrelled shotgun, polished and sanded to a shine not meant for mortal eyes. You gesture to the store owner, who begrudgingly moves toward you. You point to the shotgun, to which he pulls it out of the display and rings it in. Before he finishes, you order up two bandoleers full of 12 gauge shells, and a hunting knife.

Leaving the store, you enter your ruined restaurant briefly, most of the goop from last night having seeped into the drainage channels on the floor. You rush into the Parts & Service room, grabbing the toolbox and leaving as quickly as you came. On your way home, you must've looked like a hollywood movie hero with two bandoleers slung in an X across your blue shirt along with a shotgun on your back. You power walk home, toolbox in hand and armed to the teeth as you settle down in your apartment, clearing your document littered desk and placing a single shotgun shell on the table.

You reach into the toolbox and pull out a flat screwdriver. You pull the shell apart; you're no gunsmith, and you intend to learn how these casings work. After hours of looking up diagrams and instructions online, along with your own tinkering, you get a decent understanding of the composition of the ammunition. You smile as everything goes according to plan. You stand up and quickly leave your apartment as you rush down to a trip to the local general store. Just your luck; they've got aluminium powder and magnesium strips in ample supply.

On your way home, you come across a rusted car parked in an alley, wheels stolen and seats missing. It'll do. You rush home and drop off the powder, before grabbing a chisel and a bucket as you hurry back to the car, squatting down as you scratch off rust for what seems like hours. Eventually, after almost half a day, your bucket is full, and you head home. You can't resist whistling cheerily; those fuckers aren't gonna expect this. You put over a pot of coffee as you settle down at your desk, mixing together the aluminium powder, magnesium and rust into little balls. You thoroughly seal the shell back again, hoping it'll hold.

Minutes turn to hours, hours turn to the entire night as you're on the brink of passing out, having almost gone through your 7th pot of coffee. You're almost done as you look over to the finished bandoleer, ramping up your last efforts to finish the second one as fast as possible. Your alarms insistent beeping signals that it's 6 AM in the morning. You wipe your eyes, your strenuous work finally done. Instead of pouring yourself a cup of coffee, you chug the half-full pot in one go; your body's gonna need as much energy as you can get.

You hear birds sing, along with seagulls in the distance. Your mind is running off the combined efforts of adrenaline and 7 pots of coffee, the sugar rush threatening a crash so big you'll be sleeping for years. No matter, you're not gonna need a long time for this. You look like a walking action cliché, holding a shotgun with several belts filled with shells across your chest. The morning sun blinds your eyes as you reach into your pocket, and put on your sunglasses. You chuckle to yourself at the coincidence; the sun's not gonna be the only bright thing here when you're done.

Soon enough, you're standing at the doorstep to the massive church. It towers above pretty much every building in sight, looking more like a grand cathedral than just a church. You take a few deep breaths, and walk up to the door as you load two shells into your boomstick. You lean your ear up against the door, listening for anything inside. If you had to guess, you'd estimate that you heard at least 4 different voices in there. You step back and smile to yourself, wondering if you should fire off a one-liner as you kick the door in. Oh well, you'll make the choice in the moment.

You rear back and scream as you lift your leg and kick the door as hard as you can. The top hinges of the mirrored gate blow themselves off as you burst in, splinters flying everywhere from the torn off metal and wood. "Anybody order a fuckin' pizza?!" is all you scream before blasting the closest cultist with your special ammo, their brown garb exploding into tiny bits and catching on fire, your theorem proving itself as your thermite laced ammunition pays off.

You take your eyes off the poor soul, who's now positively in flames as the smell of burning flesh hits your nose like a fist. Peering forward, three cultists stand in absolute horror at your display; you've got no time for these crazy fucks, and fire into them with your last shell. All three of them burst into flames as the thermite makes contact, the flames consuming them alive. The air is thick with the smell of burnt flesh and blood as you laugh heartily, loading more shells into your rifle.

Another nutter comes around the corner, barely feet away from you as you shout, "BOOMSHAKALAKA!" before blowing their head off into chunks of meat from the sheer force of the blast. You begin making your way into their inner chambers, kicking doors in and shooting cultists left and right. Throughout all of this, you never attempt to suppress your laughter as the taste of revenge threatens to drown you emotionally. Your tally must be up at least 20 cultist to none, not that any of them have any time to keep score.

A group of two attempt to charge you with sacrificial daggers as you immediately shoot one of them, blowing them off their legs as they burst into flames from the fiery buckshot. You aim your shotgun at the second poor fool, but you're met with a click. With no time to reload, you're left with no choice but to take the fight to him! Slipping your hunting knife out of your belt, you charge the terrified cultist, knocking him to the ground as you punch him in the face repeatedly, before finally stabbing him through his forehead with enough force to crack the back of his skull, blood seeping into the already crimson carpet.

Your mind is completely overloaded on adrenaline and bloodlust; you hurry off the mushy corpse as you quickly reload your weapon. You come to a massive ornate door, a pedestal nearby with a big green gem and occult markings covering it. Your mind doesn't bother with the details as you hammer your fist down onto it, the door slowly opening as horror takes hold of your body; you slide your sunglasses onto your forehead, not believing your eyes. A giant room appears before you, long lines of worshippers standing to attention on every floor of the multi floored room.

In the middle of the room stands... something. You're not sure what it is, but you do know that those are fins, and that it's covered in scaly green skin. As you get a good look on its face, it begins resembling a fish on a human body. Though it's no body to scoff at, as it's riddled with rippling muscles. The fishman wears nothing but a loin cloth and a spear in both of his hands. Suddenly the massive door closes behind you, and you can see no apparent way out as the people up above begin chanting, all of them chanting "Old One! Old One! I'a Hydra, I'a Dagon!" completely in sync with each other.

You've had enough of this, and decide to make the first move as you aim from the hip, firing off your thermite solution at the freak. Your shot makes it stagger, but nothing else happens as it smiles in your direction, its sharktoothed grin making you gulp. Fear prods your mind, but you shrug it off as you slide your sunglasses back down and load the empty chamber with another shot. You won't be beat, and certainly not by this fucking amphibian.

Suddenly, the fishman changes stance and runs towards you, spear thrust forward! You narrowly dodge its blow, firing your shotgun into its foot as it hunches forward. Seeing your opportunity, you smack the butt of your gun on its face to barely any effect. He smiles at you as you realize that you're running out of options, and you decide to bolt it to the other side of the room, firing behind you as you back up. As your fight continues for a while, you start noticing your shots taking off scales every shot. You get the idea, and keep shooting at the same place repeatedly.

It feels like you've been fighting this thing for an hour, your exhaustion finally setting in despite your combat adrenaline. Your movements get slower and clumsier, but the creature never relents, constantly chasing you around the room. You suddenly stumble over your own foot, and the fishman sees his opportunity, laying his entire weight into his charge! His spear hits you just under your shoulder, piercing you deeply as the fishman comes close to your face, grinning ear to ear at finally having gotten you. It opens its mouth, the foul stench nearly making you puke on the spot, but you've got other plans.

"You want a piece of me, huh?! Too bad, asshole! Suck on this!" you cry out as you shove the shotgun in its mouth, firing off both shells into its throat. It screams and staggers backwards in pain, its spear still lodged inside you as the Old One lets go, running around in circles as it burns up on the inside. You sit up and load your shotgun, training your aim at it just to be safe. Amidst its screaming and furious yelling, you grin to yourself as the smell of cooked fish hits your nostrils.

After much sprawling and moving, the monster finally falls to its knees and lets out a final groan as its face hits the marble floor. You breathe rapidly, sighing in relief at surviving the encounter. You direct your attention to the spear lodged in your torso, and you decide you don't fancy dying to a fish. You grip the spear, pulling as hard as you can as you bite down into your lip, letting out a painful groan as the spear finally flies out, blood staining your shirt as it runs down your body. You stumble to your feet; those bastards have really done it now. You look up to the floors above and discover that they've become vacant. Cheeky fucks.

You hurry up the stairs, every step reminding you of the searing pain you're going through. You take the time to do an ammunition count; you've got at least 30 shells left. That'll do, you remark to yourself as you reach the top at last. You kick open the door, the silent hallway being an odd contrast to the constant yammering and chanting going on beforehand. You don't let your guard down as you scan the room, the eerie silence scaring you to the core. You continue on, into a massive dining room.

Inside, at least 20 cultists are enjoying their supper, laughing amongst themselves completely unaware of your presence. You have a fast internal struggle over whether or not to attack them, but your emotions get the better of you as you run to the table, jumping onto it and firing wildly into the mob. The cultists scream in fear and scatter, bodies burning away as your shotgun covers the room in the fiery hail. Few of them flee into adjoining rooms, and you quickly chase after them.

Kicking open the door, you shoot three of them in the back as they burst into flames, the smell of death making you feel right at home. You run down the hallway, swearing you saw someone run this way. Your goose hunt leads you down several stairs, your environment changing from pristine chapel to caves way faster than you cared to notice. You puff and pant as you rest yourself against a cave wall, taking a good look around as you realize that you're lost. You sit down and recuperate, realizing that you have barely any ammunition left.

At least your wound has healed.


End file.
